


plan sixty-nine from outer space

by syrupwit



Series: typical human courtship [7]
Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Older Dib (Invader Zim), Showing Up On A Doorstep And Pretending To Be Mail-Order Spouse In Hope They'll Just Go With It, Some inappropriate humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-01-30 12:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21427954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/pseuds/syrupwit
Summary: Zim escalates.
Relationships: Dib/Zim (Invader Zim)
Series: typical human courtship [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1466797
Comments: 31
Kudos: 142





	1. Chapter 1

One day Zim steals Dib’s phone to play mobile games and realizes that almost a month has gone by. His Elite Roman Lycanthrope General has just won a major strategic victory, and he’s rejoicing in the showers of loot when a message flashes across the screen. It’s a reminder from Dib’s calendar application: _ August 24, 20XX. _

Zim stares at the display, momentarily unable to think. There’s less than a week until the 30 days are up.

Dib opens the closet door. Zim shrieks and drops the phone. 

“Stop using my phone to play games, Miz.”

“What games? I wasn’t playing games! I was… uninstalling Roomba Butler’s games!” Zim fumbles for the phone, waves it under Dib’s nose before snatching it back. “See? I’ll just delete this.” It pains him to sacrifice his progress in _ Werewolves of London 43 AD, _ but being an Invader means sometimes making tough choices.

Dib seems unconvinced, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Uh-huh. Well, when you’re finished, we’re making pancakes.”

Zim perks up. “Ooh! Remember to put beans of jelly in mine.”

“That’s gross. You’re so gross.” Dib screws up his face in exaggerated distaste.

“No, it’s delicious, like me. YOU’RE gross.”

Dib shoots him an indecipherable look. “I don’t think I have enough evidence to assess that.”

“How could you lack for evidence? Surely you have inhabited your hideous physical form for, ehh,” Zim runs a quick calculation, “at least twenty-seven Earth years. That’s more than enough time to gather proof of your own grossness.” 

“I meant about you being delicious.” 

“Ah.” Zim stiffens. “Ehrm.” 

Dib is looking down at him with half-lidded eyes. Zim feels his skin flush, an automatic response that his species should have eliminated by now. Dib’s flat, ugly tongue darts out to wet his lips, a tad too slowly not to be deliberate, and Zim’s skin flushes harder. Stupid skin.

“Kidding.” Dib smiles faintly and uncrosses his arms. “Anyway, I have to go back and supervise. Don’t spend too long in here, or your disgusting jellybean pancakes will get cold.”

“Maybe that’s how I like them!” Zim calls after him.

“Sure.”

Zim stares at the phone, mind blank. From the kitchen, he can hear GIR operating his mixer arm, the whirring merely growing louder with Dib’s protests. Great, now they’ll have to break out the ceiling mop again. 

The Dib has been growing… bolder, lately. Though there have been no kisses nor declarations of romantic intent—both of which, Zim’s sources assert, are essential to human lovepig arrangements—a new strain of tension has infected their interactions. Dib seems to look at Zim longer, touch him more often, stand closer to him when they’re in the same room. 

A couple of nights ago, Zim awoke to find Dib watching him, his eyes nearly black in the darkness and his soft pitiful hand outstretched toward Zim’s. He had stayed up for a while after that, pretending to sleep while he listened to Dib’s breathing even out. The next morning, he had jumped when Dib clapped him on the shoulder, shuddered and held still when Dib reached past him for the coffee pot. The press of Dib’s front against his back had felt at once comforting and unbearable. 

It’s all very revolting, of course. But Zim can’t help longing for something to _ happen, _ whether it’s a resolution to the tension or the Dib-pig’s demise (although dwelling on the latter brings him no joy, not like it once did). He can’t fail this mission.

There are only six days left, and Zim has to make them count. It’s time to escalate.

* * *

“GIR, I specifically said rose _ petals— _”

“Wheeeheeeheeeee!” GIR rolls around in the leaves, stems, and thorns strewn over the freshly made bed. Zim suspects that he ate the blossoms.

“Argh!” Zim throws his hands up and goes to steal the neighbor’s flowers. 

A while later, Zim and GIR survey the scene. The bedding has been re-washed, adorned anew with the clippings Zim had salvaged from Miss Pingle’s sad little garden. His spooch is still quivering from his encounter with her new alarm system, and he can’t help but sneak wary looks over his shoulder. Since GIR intercepted her wine subscription delivery a week ago, Miss Pingle has gotten serious about home security.

The lights are out in the rest of the apartment and the blinds are closed, lending a moody dimness to the bedroom. Scented candles, unlit for now, adorn the dresser and floor. The most champagne-like among the stolen wines sits atop the cardboard-box nightstand, attended by two plastic cups decorated with heart stickers (GIR insisted). There is chocolate, somewhere.

Zim fiddles with a music player. The bedroom fills with the poignant stylings of Glanchkin “Tank” Frumbley, a contemporary easy listening artist who has enjoyed a recent surge in popularity after his ballad “Love Me With Your Lovin’, Love” was featured on the season finale of whatever spinoff of _ Floopsy Boops Shmoopsy _ they’re on now_. _

_ Love me with your lovin’, love_, Tank croons. _ Tenderize me with your meat mallet. Staple my lovin’ paper with the stapler of your love... _

Perfect. The IDEAL conditions for romance. All that’s missing is the Dib.

There are another three hours until Dib’s shift ends, and a half-hour after that until he’s supposed to get home. He said he’d bring dinner, so that’s not a concern. Zim busies himself with shooing GIR out of the bedroom, cleaning the rest of the apartment, and fight-negotiating with the local crows. 

They claim he shorted them on payment for the latest batch of eyeballs. Ridiculous! Those eyeballs were subpar, and Zim paid the crows accordingly. The only additional expenditures he plans to make are crow-chastising-spray blasts.

The crows take poorly to chastisement. The ensuing fracas carries Zim through the afternoon and almost to sunset. Evening’s approach finds half the crows fled, preening their wounds or whatever injured crows do, and the other half engaged in tense mediation with Zim. However, settlement will have to wait till morning. The crows do not bargain after dark.

Zim goes back inside the apartment. GIR is at the sink, washing dishes or maybe shoes. The bedroom is undisturbed, the music player still cycling through Tank’s greatest hits. Dib should be leaving work around now. Zim repairs to the bathroom to get ready, his insides buzzing with anticipation. Hopefully there will be enough time.

The half-hour passes. No Dib. 

Another half-hour passes. GIR falls asleep in the sink, gnawing at a shoe. Still no Dib. 

Another half-hour. Zim is beginning to consider taking the Voot out when the landline rings. And rings. And rings.

“Yes?” he answers, after the ringing becomes too persistent to ignore. 

It’s Dib. “Miz! Thank god I got ahold of you. My car broke down and my phone was out of battery, so I had to use the phone at this random store. The only number I could remember was Torque’s—Torque Smackey, from skool—and I don’t have auto insurance but he came out to tow me, and THEN his truck ran out of gas and he had to call his buddy and—”

“Slow down. What’s going on?”

Dib tells him again, allowing pauses for breath this time. “Long story short, they’re coming over for pizza in ten minutes. Do we still have that wine that Roomba Butler, uh, found?”

Once he’s off the phone, Zim takes down the bedroom setup in a few efficient moves. Tank’s more melancholy tunes provide a fitting backdrop. Zim isn’t sure if the current song is called “Stop, The Sky Wept Softly” or “Rusted Bicycle of Love.” Regardless, in this moment, it reflects his mood perfectly.

* * *

The visit from Torque Smackey and his buddy leaves Dib with a hangover and Zim with a persistent headache. Dib has a morning shift; Zim takes spiteful pleasure in watching him lurch around the apartment. But he makes the good coffee and puts it in a travel mug for Dib’s bus ride, because… because it will make his eventual betrayal that much sweeter, okay? Okay???

“Thanks,” says Dib absently, when Zim shoves the mug at him. Though he’s halfway out the door, he leans back in to drop a hasty kiss on Zim’s head. Then he realizes what he’s done. He and Zim both freeze, staring at each other.

Dib is the first to break the stare. He steps forward, forcing Zim to scuttle back, and sets the mug on the floor. 

“Hey, come here and let me kiss you properly.” 

Zim can only stand there, shaking, while Dib kneels down and cups his face in both overly large hands. His hair brushes Zim’s forehead. He strokes his thumb over Zim’s cheek. Then his lips are on Zim’s, chapped and soft and—utterly repulsive, of course. Humans’ mouths are so _ wet. _

Zim is still shaking when Dib pulls back.

Dib searches his face. “You okay?”

Zim can speak. He CAN. “I’m—you stink. Stinking beast.” Dib really does. The trace of wine is disgusting. Zim is glad he didn’t drink any last night.

“Sorry,” says Dib with a smile in his voice. For one agonizing moment, Zim thinks he’s going to kiss him again, but Dib just picks up his mug and stands up.

“I’ll see you later,” Dib promises nonsensically. Then, after his eyes land on the clock: “Oh fuck, I’m late!”

Zim watches from the window as Dib runs after the bus, unseasonable coat flapping, mug probably slopping coffee all over the sidewalk. It’s odd. He would have expected Dib’s saliva to burn, but all he can feel is the phantom pressure of Dib’s thumb on his cheek.

* * *

So that was “kissing.” Hardly a challenge. With the first kiss out of the way, Zim feels confident to escalate even further. It’s time for Phase 2: Seduction.

Although sexual reproduction fell out of favor with the Empire millennia before Zim’s existence, he is no stranger to the practice of sex as recreation. Not in a hands-on way yet, mind you, but he gets the concept. Kind of. He could improvise an encounter if he had to.

(He has no idea what he’s doing.)

Zim pulls up an Internet browser and gets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miss Pingle is my OC, plz do not steal xx


	2. Chapter 2

Several hours later, Zim closes the browser. Images swirl in his mind: some vague, some vivid, all bewildering. Although he’s not sure he understands human sexuality any better than before, he at least has a plan now.

The first item on his agenda is wrapping up that settlement with the crows. None are so foolish as to comment on his distraction, or at least not to his face. Zim has learned by now to discern the subtle signs, the behavioral and vocal tells of crow ridicule. No matter. They’ll know his wrath in time.

Second item on the agenda involves a trip to the store. No, a different store. This is a specialty store. It’s halfway across town, tucked away in a strip mall hidden between discount furniture outlets. Zim HATES discount furniture outlets. Once he and GIR got lost in one for two days, and they had to temporarily ally with a colony of mutant carpet beetles to tunnel under the floor to the sewers. Perhaps, if they have some time to spare this afternoon, they can burn the outlets down.

The store’s exterior promises little. The parking lot is near empty, save for a handful of cars parked in front of the dive bar at the end. The storefront is blank; a partly retracted security gate shields blacked-out windows. The only concession to the nature of business done there is a small red rose on the “OPEN” sign. 

When he was a cadet, Zim once snuck alone into the lair of the mighty Dwulx, Magma-Lord of Vzirph. His discovery there, and the subsequent diplomatic tumult, had set off a chain of events culminating in both the destruction of his entire squad and Vzirph’s absorption into the Empire. If he recalls correctly, the planet is now a novelty bumper sticker factory. That’s irrelevant. 

What is relevant is that Zim has braved unknown dangers on the fly before. Dwulx’s inner stronghold, for example, had been guarded by not one but five solid walls of lava. There had been demon toads! Flying squid! Giant spikes on every conceivable surface! At one point, Zim had found himself dodging blasts of toad-fire and volleys of exploding rocks while hanging off a lava-fall by his PAK legs. While human affection may indeed be largely pain-based, there is no reason to expect that this den of iniquity holds trials greater than anything Zim has already faced.

Zim heaves a deep breath, opens the door, and double-takes. Chimes murmur as the door falls shut behind him, GIR trailing after him in curious silence. 

The store’s interior is a solid field of pink—not quite the fierce magenta of Irk, but close. An acoustic cover of “Love Me With Your Lovin’, Love” plays softly over the audio system. Garish displays line the walls, with sub-departments of merchandise designated by whimsical handwritten signs. At a circular counter in the center, a woman is balancing a cash register.

The air smells like artificial cherry, undercut with… plastic? Rubber? Ah, of course: both. There are plenty of those materials here, just as Zim expected. And no death traps… so far.

He makes a slow circuit of the room, passes his eyes over the shelves without comprehending most of their contents. GIR utters small noises of awe. There are no other customers. Zim can feel the cashier dart glances at him. 

“Can I help you find anything?” the horrible retail pig asks, after Zim has passed by her for the third time. 

Zim prepares to tell her off, but GIR cuts in before he can start. “He’s looking for one’a those TUBES!” He illustrates with a suggestive hand motion.

“That could be a lot of things,” says the cashier. “Can you be more specific?”

“A big BIG tube like this!” GIR elaborates with a fully obscene gesture, punctuated by a dance move.

“Ah.” The cashier taps her chin speculatively, then holds up a finger. “One moment. I’ll see what we have in the back.”

“You were supposed to let me do the talking,” Zim hisses, while she’s away. GIR shrugs, hops on the counter, and starts rifling through a bowl of humorously shaped candies. He’s in his butler suit, a garment Zim improvised from one of Dib’s old t-shirts a week or so into their arrival. He can’t help but take pride in the crispness of the attached hover-bowtie.

The cashier returns all too soon, dragging a cart of boxes behind her. While Zim gawks and GIR oohs and aahs, she lays them out on the counter, explaining the function and features of each product as it is revealed. Some are elegant and discreetly packaged, named misleading things like “Laurel” or “Bayfront Breeze”; others are flashy, cheerfully vulgar, and given titles that he would prefer not to restate.

“Yes, yes, very impressive,” says Zim, when the cashier has finished demonstrating the multiple buzzing speeds of one especially distinctive item, “The Annihilator.” “How many monies does it cost?”

The cashier names a price that has Zim’s antennae quivering under his disguise.

“But, if you sign up for our mailing list, it’s 15% off.”

“Let me confer with my associate,” Zim tells her, and drags GIR behind a trio of lace-clad mannequins. 

“Change of plans,” he whispers. “GIR, execute Maneuver 117-H.”

“Aww, really? But the lady’s so nice.”

“GIR!”

“Fiiiiine.”

Five minutes later, they’re sprinting for dear life through the parking lot. Zim has The Annihilator. GIR has the bowl of candy. The cashier has a taser and backup, in the form of two bouncers from the dive bar.

“You won’t get away with this, thieves!” the cashier shouts. She shakes her fist skyward while Zim takes off via jetpack, GIR clinging to his leg. 

“Bye, lady!” GIR waves. “Thanks for the candy!”

Zim can’t stop laughing. This almost rivals the exhilaration he felt when he stole the living flame at the heart of Dwulx’s vault. The Annihilator buzzes in his hand, and he laughs and laughs, imagining the look on the Dib-thing’s face when Zim displays his prize. He is going to be _ SO _seduced. Zim is going to win at human sex, forever.

They make it back to the apartment in excellent time, even with the detour for arson.

* * *

Dib was supposed to be home an hour from now, but he is home NOW. And he’s not alone. Torque Smackey sprawls on their sofa, finishing a slice of cold pizza and scrolling through his phone while Dib explains something to him. 

Zim stands in the entry for a moment, veins coursing with rage. He finds just enough presence of mind to stash The Annihilator behind his back before the two notice him. 

“Dude,” says Torque, tapping Dib’s shoulder.

“...so in that case, they _ say _ the blob was just more whale blubber, but my sources suggest—” Dib breaks off his rant, craning his neck to look at Zim. “What? Oh, hey, Miz. Sorry, we ate all the pizza.”

“What is he doing here?” Zim demands.

“My shift got out early, so Torque gave me a ride. Is something wrong?” Dib’s expression holds no guile.

“Everything is _ fine, _” Zim snarls, and sweeps into the bedroom as dramatically as he can without revealing his back to them. He slams the door. After a second, he locks it, too.

He stashes The Annihilator in a hidden wall panel, then flings himself onto the bed and burrows into the stiff, cold sheets. They smell like human. Stupid, stupid human. He can hear Dib talking to GIR, who has come in after Zim. The Torque interjects with an inaudible remark, and Dib laughs. Zim HATES that laugh. He hates everything about Dib.

He curls into a ball and seethes. He’s seething when he hears a knock at the door.

“Master? Master, lemme in.”

“Go away, GIR,” Zim calls, too upset to be careful.

Sawing noises ensue.

“No!” It’s Dib, intervening. “Let him have his space. I can’t afford to replace those locks. Do you want to come watch videos on my phone?”

Thus, GIR is lured back to the sofa. Zim stuffs a pillow over his antennae to muffle the shrieks and cries of entertainment. 

After a while, seething gets boring, and he finds the wherewithal to emerge. They’re still on the sofa. GIR is sat between the two humans and seems enraptured with the company.

Dib doesn’t look up at Zim’s approach, but he budges over to make space for him. Zim squeezes between Dib’s side and the corner of the sofa. Dib’s arm goes around him, and Zim leans his head against Dib’s chest. He feels overheated and a little bit smug.

“Feel better?” Dib murmurs.

Zim says, “I said I was fine.”

Dib bows his head closer so he can whisper where Zim’s ear would be, if Zim had human ears. “Next time I’ll tell you before I have someone over.” 

“Bro, check this out.” Torque waves his phone at Dib. “This news story is crazy.” He glances at GIR, who is absorbed in video-watching. “Uh, it might not be appropriate for your robot though.”

“Oh yeah?” Dib takes the proffered phone, tilts the screen so Zim can see.

Zim stares in horror. Among the trending topics on a popular social media network, in thankfully blurry security-camera glory, is an image of Zim and GIR robbing the specialty store.

* * *

The Torque-human leaves soon after that. They tidy the apartment, and Dib showers. GIR is too full of candy to want dinner. Zim eats half a sleeve of cookies and wonders when he started to expect regular meals.

He feels exhausted. He had intended to stay up and work on his plan, but he can feel his body shutting down for the night. Ah, well. A handful of days still remain. Perhaps inspiration will strike overnight.

When he climbs into bed, Dib rolls over to face him. “Hey, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” Zim’s spooch squirms unpleasantly.

“Don’t look scared. It’s nothing bad.” Dib fumbles for Zim’s hand, squeezes it. “How about we talk after I get home from work tomorrow?”

“If you insist.”

“Cool.” Dib smiles sleepily, closes his eyes. “Night.”

It turns out that Zim can’t sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit unsure about this one! Let me know what you think.
> 
> -
> 
> Dib is pontificating to Torque about [Globsters](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Globster).


End file.
